The river was dazzling in the morning sunlight, the air like wine.
The poplar trees had put on their gorgeous autumn dress of saffron and scarlet, which showed like names against the chocolate colored hills.
Suddenly in a grassy ravine on his right, Ambrose saw the "yellow" horse feeding.
His heart set up a furious beating.

No power on earth could have prevented him from landing, though common sense told him clearly no good could come of it.

That "perhaps" drew him ashore, that hope against hope.
After a short search he found her sleeping under a poplar-tree in a hollow of the bank that was hidden from the river.
She wore her khaki riding-habit, as usual; her head was couched in the crook of her arm, and in the other hand she held her Stetson hat by its strap.

Ambrose brooded over her wistfully.
Her face was paler and thinner; evidently she herself had not been having too easy a time these two months past.
These blemishes on her beauty made her seem infinitely more beautiful and dearer to him.

And all relaxed and disarmed in sleep as she was, it seemed so easy a thing to gather her up in his arms and make her forget what divided them.
Ambrose's dim thought was: "If somehow I could only send her real self a message while her head-strong, unreasonable self is asleep, maybe she'd confess the truth when she woke." While he was hungrily gazing at her her eyelids fluttered.